"grody" poems
Even though you know some tea, you aren’t automatically pressed to spill ALL of it. Today’s tea features our roommate Sophie and two grody flavors of betrayal. BTW, I’m being magnanimous by changing the names and not doxxing the creeps.
To set our stage, a doe (we’ll call her Britney) high-school friend of Sophie’s is a Yale freshie this year. They were buddy-hollys back in the day and they’ve been clinging since their reunion.
On another track, Sophie’s been talking to a guy (we’ll call him Cory) in her English class recently and it was clear they were “in-like” but their clocked-up schedules were corking their algorithms.
Sophie and Cory finally got a shot last weekend when they attended a party together. However, it turns out later, at that party, Britney snuck off with Cory and smashed him (they were observed, and everyone carries a camera these days).
So, poor Sophie suffered two betrayals in one night. Cory went-hiking on her and Britney - who she'd told about Cory - did the other woman chisel.
Of course, Cory (just another dog-boy) is already forgotten but the broken friendship drama will live on forever. Why Britney chose to betray Sophie we’ll never know, because that ***** is dead to us.
Nov 14, 2022
Nov 14, 2022 at 12:06 PM UTC
I cannot stand foot tattoos;
those things are just plain grody.
How could anybody choose
the most awkward part of the body
to mark with permanent inky
decision making?
But that’s just my opinion.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 11:26 PM UTC
i was waiting for an opportunity to take my dad's credit card
because i wanted something
and tonight
just when i really wanted something
something silly
very badly
he was on the phone
his wallet on the table...
within two minutes
i was walking upstairs
his grody card
in my hand
punching in the numbers
before i clicked confirm order
i thought of remedying the situation
"oh...dad...i was just trying to order you your birthday present
without you knowing
wanted it to be a surprise
haha, never guessed, did you"
i thought he wouldn't notice
the $30 missing
after i finally got what i wanted
i felt so full
i finally had it
and then i felt scared
and
embarrassed
and
ashamed
and i wondered
if this is what i am reduced to
materialistic ****
stealing from my father
who gives me all he can
is this just because i am a girl
or because i am human
or because i am sad
when will i stop stealing things
am i some sick *******
who gets a thrill out of petty crimes
what will i do next?
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 10:05 PM UTC
It's an unfortunate thing to say that we place them there up high on their **** stools
To rule and say, Yes. No.
It's an unfortunate thing that one could be so irate when it all goes belly up
Who is to blame?
I say, it is an unfortunate thing to say, it is us
So long with much done so long with more not undone and it is us to blame, ourselves
And it is an unfortunate thing to say that the grody came out on top and the fool stayed quite..
Or is it so "unfortunate"?
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 6:37 PM UTC
Wake up and smell the stench you made
again, you ****** it up again.
Self deprecating, grating shame
surrounds your stupid, childish hope
that you could live in love again.
That crushing disappointment fills
the eyes and hearts of those around
and grabs your gut and wraps it round
your beaten, broken promises
in faith and fancy cruelly drowned.
What fooled you into thinking that
redemption was within your reach?
Who made your mindless mind so each
and every time you try to speak
you **** all over verbal bleach,
a choking stink that makes them retch
and run from you, the grody glitch,
the thoughtless, soulless, brutish *****
that bites each hand of human help
and digs her deeper, darker ditch.
Jun 21, 2017
Jun 21, 2017 at 10:01 AM UTC
My hands are grody
from touching my
aching face
there is dirt
underneath my fingernails
from digging my
own grave
this hole isn't
deep enough yet.
keep digging
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 9, 2011 at 11:22 PM UTC
now those eidolic dread horses have scarred your slumber, passed 9, passed 10, and even your furniture has silent, open mouthed, nightmares over the too soon dead, dead school friends who never ended their crossings, and see, see, she stoops, in shroud ghastly knelt as in prayer, but you can’t see, see through the tricks of light that scream “she is there”, your crumpling chest boiling as the bones in your legs subside while those, without body, cross the empty room, no need to surmise that which lies bereft and restless may yet have something to say and you, you are the luckless soul who lives upon their byway and now, now the voices, the voices start, those grody sounds, that won’t stop, stop your heart, beneath the floor, within the walls, the precedent for dull footfalls calling, calling to us one by one with no clear sight of saint or villain, a spectral round of hide and seek, directed by a floorboards creak, each time we search there’s nothing, nothing there, but of this guest we’re so aware, who was first, it or us, we can’t be sure, sure it wasn’t brought from distant shores, for it never raised its head or voice before, before that gift from land of Vlad was carried over our threshold and ushered in something, something cold, the bearer of an ancient fear, something as of yet unclear, or are we in thrall of phantoms more explainable
This is a combination and refinement of what were two separate poems, previously published, to make by far a more satisfying whole. I believe it more convincingly captures some of the fear and panic I was trying to convey and should be read in a breathless manner as if you were living in a world that was entirely scripted by Samuel Beckett
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 10:45 AM UTC
It is vitally important
That you find somewhere to hide.
If you can't manage it in private,
You must at least try in public.
Find all the round, yellow little cubbies you can
Pray they are unoccupied.
If, in fact, they aren't...
Wander, pointedly examining the floor,
A wall,
Your phone
Until you find a cracked
Worn
Red one.
Slink unnoticed into it,
Keep your head low
And let the grody,
Curved
White wall
Protect you.
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 4:42 PM UTC
frail the flower, that she held
her hands frailer still
when touched, a grody cold
a winter morning's chill
frail and fair, her skin felt
eyes closed; asleep
at life's wicked plan
how could I not but weep?
Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 12:47 AM UTC